


(i still know) where i've been

by decidueye



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Horseback Riding, Other, Recovery, Sports Injury, Trans Bokuto Koutarou, coffee shop AU, prologue and epilogue in mixed perspective, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-10-18 07:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17576159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidueye/pseuds/decidueye
Summary: Koutarou is just looking for a rich date he can persuade to finance his charity work; he gets more than he bargained for in Akaashi Keiji.Akaashi comes in at the same time each fortnight - once to get a coffee before a meeting of some kind, and again after it ends, to order some heinously sweet dessert that Koutarou wishes would be taken off the menu. They're here now, and Koutarou peers over the counter to see them scooping up the last of the whipped cream from their plate, so dedicated to the consumption of the dessert that Koutarou feels a little nauseous.





	1. Prologue and Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> "Akaashi flirting is like Kageyama trying to smile" - a comment from my beta that I particularly loved. Akaashi isn't in therapy for any particular reason anymore. They used to be, but now it's mostly to keep an eye on things. Everyone does better with a little bit of therapy imo.

#  _ Prologue _

Akaashi has more energy than usual as they come through the door today; it swings open with a little more force than intended, and they catch it with their ankle. Their expression is relaxed, though, and they even offer a small smile as they take their seat, so the sharpness of their movements doesn't come from a place of anger.

Nothing about their week seems to have differed from their usual routine, but Akaashi describes it with dynamism, and none of the usual hopeless pessimism. Work has become ‘repetitive, but not so bad…’; once unbearable colleagues are ‘well-meaning if irritating’. Akaashi skips over details as they always have, but this time with dismissal instead of avoidance.

“Honestly, I wasn't sure if I ought to come today,” they say. “I felt like I didn't need to, and I didn't want to waste your time...then I remembered that it's good to record the good weeks, too. Besides, I only felt like that when I was in the waiting room, and by then I'd be wasting your time even more.”

Making note of the good weeks is valuable, but this is a lesson that Akaashi has never been able to remember themself previously. Something this week must have been worth recording.

Akaashi came in nursing a cup of coffee - store bought from a nearby chain, which, again, isn't unusual. They refuse the complementary filter service every week, and call themself a coffee snob, even though it's fine to have preference. What  _ is _ remarkable is that they finished the cup ten minutes ago, but instead of putting it down on the nearby table, they are holding it with both hands, fingers tapping against the cardboard when they would normally be reaching for their knuckles.

“You only felt as if you didn't need a session today in the waiting room? How had you been feeling previously?”

“Oh...the usual,” Akaashi replies, dismissive as their nose scrunched up. “Overwhelmed, overworked...rushing because my meeting had run late again. It wasn't  _ exactly _ when I arrived in the waiting room, though, so I don't think I was doubting my - how would you say it, whether I ‘deserved’ to come here? I know I've done that in the past, but this was different. I just felt...fine. Like I had nothing to complain about.”

“You don't have to have something to complain about to be here.”

“I know that. I just meant...I felt at peace.”

“When did that feeling start?”

Akaashi pauses to consider the question. Even in an open, judgement-free space, Akaashi doesn't give answers that haven't been well thought out. “Probably when I had my first sip of this coffee,” they say slowly, gesturing with the cup, and then they snort. “I don't know why. It's burnt.”

“It doesn’t taste good?”

“No… It does, which is surprising. Somehow it works. The barista was new… I don’t think he was used to the machine,” Akaashi laughs, and then pauses abruptly, considering. “Actually,  _ he’s _ probably the reason I felt so content.”

There is a pause, and Akaashi’s words ring heavy around the small room. The pads of their fingers rub against the cup, agitated, and for a moment their eyes are wide in astonishment. Then they frown at themself.

“How silly, to be affected by something so trivial.”

“Nothing that affects you is silly, Akaashi-san. Tell me about the barista.”

Akaashi’s intake of breath is palpable; for them, there is no such thing as an account that is too thorough. Their tongue sweeps across their lips as they take a moment to assemble the details. “There was a long line… I noticed him from the back of it, since I go there every fortnight, and he’s, ah, very distinctive, so he stood out as someone I hadn’t seen before. He’s huge, and very loud, and he was laughing at a joke. I don’t know if he told it, or the customer did, but he seemed enthusiastic - like he wasn’t just putting on an act to get through the working day. The line moved so slowly because he took a while with each customer, and Sarukui - I know him a little, he’s worked there for a long time - kept telling him to speed up, but no one complained. I would have, usually.”

“What stopped you?”

Akaashi flushes. They are silent, but it doesn’t seem like they need to be nudged to say more; only that they are struggling to find the words. “I was just… Watching him. I didn’t really notice how long it took. And then I recognised him. It was Bokuto Koutarou, of all people. You won’t have heard of him, probably, but he was on track to play on the national volleyball team when I was in high school. A rising star. I watched all of his matches.” 

“You looked up to him?”

“Very much so. The first match I saw him play was at nationals. Our team hadn’t made it, but I went anyway for a couple of matches, just to see, and he… He was incredible. His gaze was so intense when he spiked, and he put all of himself into the game. His teammates couldn’t help but rally around him. I wanted to be in his orbit.” Akaashi pauses. “I played volleyball much more seriously after that. I never could have been a professional, but my team went to nationals the next year, and I kept hoping that I… Would meet him, perhaps. I can’t believe I did - not the way I imagined, but it still felt like a dream.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No - of course not. He stopped playing because of an injury - I have no idea how he might feel about the circumstances of his early retirement, and I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself asking for an autograph. For a moment though, I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak when it was my turn to order… And then he burnt my coffee. We didn’t talk for very long.”

“That doesn’t sound like a positive interaction.”

“It was, though. You see, he looked exactly the same burning coffee as he did playing volleyball, and for a second, that intensity and enthusiasm was on me. It felt like seeing him play for the first time all over again, and when I left, I felt lighter. I want to feel that again.”

“You sound as if you think you can’t.”

“Next fortnight, maybe, if he’s working at the same time. I haven’t experienced it before, so I don’t think anything - anyone else would cause it. I don’t  _ crush _ like this… It’s kind of juvenile.” They smile on the last word, and it’s a wry one, twisted with amusement at the thought of their own happiness.

“Akaashi-san. You’re allowed to pursue something that you enjoy. It doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a feeling. What’s stopping you from visiting the coffee shop again?”

The clock ticks down the final minute of Akaashi’s session and they have nothing to say, lips pursed and deep in concentration, tasting the question as if it were a fine wine - or the coffee they had just purchased. On prompting, they bow shortly and offer their thanks, leaving with the same spring in their step that they had held when they entered. Akaashi smiles just before they close the door, and this time there is no mockery in it; just an air of mysterious puzzlement, and something that looks like hope.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Chapter 1

The coffee shop is bustling, customers scattered around tables and deep in conversation, but the line has finally died down, and Koutarou takes the opportunity to shake the donations jar he had left on the counter, peering into the glass in an attempt to discern whether most of the coins were large or small.

“It won't grow just by you looking at it, Bokkun,” Sarukui comments, sailing past with three cups in his hand. Even when there isn't much to do, Saru never stops moving, and the smile on his face is calm no matter how much pressure he's under. Sometimes its effect will rub off on Koutarou, but today it just infuriates him, and he shakes the jar again, groaning.

“Maybe it will…! You don't know,” Koutarou argues, and then he sags, putting the jar back with a heavy clink and thud. “This isn't gonna be enough to save the stable at all… I'll have to use some of my wages.”

“You need those for school and living costs,” Saru chides him immediately. Most of the time Koutarou is grateful to have a friend who knows the inner workings of his life; it stops him from getting too carried away in schemes with high risks. “You could move back in with your parents.”

“No, no, I can't bear it,” Koutarou shakes his head, moving to the dishwasher to occupy his hands. “They're great! And I know there's no shame in it - I lived with them when I wasn't touring - but now they're so  _ fussy _ , always asking about my elbow, as if I could forget about it.”

“You do, though. Frequently.”

“Semantics,” Koutarou says dismissively, hoping that he's used the word correctly - or that Saru's understanding of it is as vague as his. “Point being, I'd rather camp at the stable than have them breathing down my neck 24/7. I already stay most weekends.”

Saru laughs, patting Koutarou's back and ducking around the counter to clear tables. He passes plates over the bar to Koutarou, who scrapes them diligently and loads them into the dishwasher. When he looks up, Saru is leaning on the bar in front of him, contemplative.

“The stable's not going to close _ , _ though, is it?”

“No, but the program might, and that's the thing that makes it so great! I've put all my free time into it, when I'm not working or studying, and it would be  _ pointless _ if we have to charge out of the ass for it. I want it to help people.”

“Of course you do,” Sarukui says, and his smile is softer now - the rare kind that only his good friends can recognise as different. “Well, if good customer service isn't enough, maybe you should put the rest of that to good use.”

As he speaks, he gestures up and down Koutarou's body. It had been Sarukui's idea to put a donation jar in the coffee shop, thinking that Koutarou's ‘golden tongue’ would work wonders, and Koutarou looked down at his own chest, scandalised.

“You want me to pimp myself out for money!?” he asks, a little too loudly. Two girls in school uniforms taking pictures of their cake look around, shocked, and then giggle into their hands when he blushes. Sarukui uses a tea towel to whack him, and Koutarou bows in quick apology towards the girls’ laughing faces.

“You don’t have to go that far, Bokuto! I’m just saying, you’ve barely dated since you decided to go back to school, and you’re always moaning about being lonely, but you’re a handsome guy. Why not give yourself the extra motivation to put yourself out there by asking some rich guy out in the hopes he’ll take pity on you?”

Sarukui’s words are a gently placed knife-wound to Koutarou’s heart: what he means is that Koutarou hasn’t dated since his retirement - the period of depression and recovery that followed was too bleak for romance, and since then all of his dates had fizzled abysmally without the confidence that volleyball had given him to lift him up. He’d thrown himself into his work, and he was better now in so many ways, but Koutarou hadn’t been built to sleep alone, and his friends were the ones who got to hear the most about it. He clutches his chest, features drooping, and Saru pats him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“I’m not a sugar baby,” Koutarou whines, “besides, if I can’t get an  _ ordinary _ date, how am I going to land a rich one?”

“You’ve got an easy pool right here. I wouldn’t advocate dating on the job usually, but seeing as this is only your side-gig…” Saru shrugs, counting off his fingers. “Wakamatsu sometimes sends a PA to collect his orders, so he has to have big bucks; Harada leaves a generous tip if you’re wearing short sleeves, and.. .Akaashi isn’t in often enough to tip, but last White Day they brought in the  _ biggest _ hamper to thank us for our service. It was kind of cute, actually - and full of the good stuff, the kind that you have to have taste and money for.”

“Akaashi, huh?” Koutarou picks the only name he remembers. Akaashi comes in at the same time each fortnight - once to get a coffee before a meeting of some kind, and again after it ends, to order some heinously sweet dessert that Koutarou wishes would be taken off the menu. They're here now, and Koutarou peers over the counter to see them scooping up the last of the whipped cream from their plate, so dedicated to the consumption of the dessert that Koutarou feels a little nauseous. They lick the whipped cream from their spoon, tongue dipping into the drop before the handle, and when they catch Koutarou staring they meet his gaze with no visible remorse, eyeing him flatly. Koutarou looks away sharply, and Saru purses his lips in amusement.

“I think you’d do just fine with them,” Saru says. “At worst you get a free dinner and a chance to talk about the horses until they run scared.”

“If I ask them out I’m sure I’d have to pay.”

“Then just ask for their number; they can do the asking.”

“You’re awful confident that they’ll be interested,” Koutarou grumbles, narrowing his eyes at Sarukui, but he just smiles his usual smile and turns his back to him, shooing him off to clear the tables.

“Just wait until your shift’s over before you ask them,” Sarukui chides, “so it’s proper.”

Koutarou has forty-five minutes before his shift ends and Akaashi's plate has been thoroughly licked clean, so he comforts himself with the thought that they'll probably leave before he gets the chance. The thought of being rebuffed by one of his regulars is humiliating, and it doesn't help that Akaashi  _ is _ handsome. A long time ago, he wouldn't have needed the push that desperation provided to ask them out. He would have been confident of a yes, too - Koutarou always had a way of persuading people to give him a chance.

That person feels so far away from who he is now. Watching Akaashi flick through the pages of a book out of the corner of his eye as he bussed tables, the anxious pit in his stomach grows. He doesn't know anything about them other than that they have a love of bitter coffee and cloying desserts, they are always polite at the counter but would occasionally answer his questions with dry, often hilarious remarks, and their smile iskind. Why should he be so worried about whether or not they might want his number?

_ It's just for the money. They'll be gone anyway - if they're not, then it's a sign and everything will go alright! _

Koutarou repeats the thoughts as a mantra whilst the last half hour of his shift passes, and by the time he hangs up his apron and collects his bag, he has almost convinced himself. When he exits the back room to find Akaashi still at their table, he feels buoyant, and his beam is natural when they look up to meet his gaze. For a split second, Akaashi looks undignified, checking behind them to see if Koutarou is smiling at someone else; by the time he arrives at their table, though, they are composed once again, tucking a stray hair back into their braid as they wait for him to speak.

“Hey, Akaashi, right?” Koutarou says, pulling out the chair opposite them. Of course he knows - he’d be a terrible barista if he didn’t, and they have spent the last half of his shift talking about them after all - but it’s important to play it cool. “Mind if I sit down?”

Akaashi’s expression doesn’t move, and for a second Koutarou imagines being rejected at the first post, Saru bearing witness to his humiliation from behind the counter. His friends would probably treat him to dinner, but it wouldn’t be worth their pity. After a moment, though, their hand sweeps across the table, palm open.

“Please,” they say, and Koutarou near throws himself into the seat, his back to Saru so that he doesn’t have to bear his intrusive gaze. Akaashi’s eyes flicker once to the counter, obviously taking note, and then back to Koutarou, revealing nothing. “It seems banal to offer you a coffee…?”

Koutarou waves a dismissive hand even as he celebrates - polite gesture or not, they can’t be  _ bothered _ by his company. “I try to avoid caffeine, but thanks.”

Akaashi snorts. “A brave endeavour.”

“Someone’s gotta do it!” Koutarou preens. He’s not sure whether they’re making fun of him, but their eyes are kind, and he has found it better to meet subtle insults with oblivious acceptance anyway; Oikawa was always infuriated by it. “I won’t take up too much of your time, I promise.”

“I’m not in a rush,” Akaashi replies. Their tone is short, and it hides something that Koutarou can’t interpret - amusement, maybe, or impatience? It seems strange of them to say one thing with their mouth and another with their voice. He should probably just get to the point.

In the deep breath Koutarou takes before he speaks, he sees five years of stagnation, his former charisma falling apart with his self esteem. He feels the weakness in his elbow, the loss of definition in his thighs, and a lack of conversation with anyone besides colleagues, customers and old friends. He falters for just a moment, and then propels himself forward in a rush.

“I’ve seen you in here a few times now, and I thought it would be cool if we could get to know each other better! Could I get your LINE ID?”

There’s a long pause. Akaashi’s hands rest on top of their book - a paperback with a name Koutarou recognises despite not being an avid reader, so it must be well known - and they are still, which might be the first time that Koutarou has seen them that way. He hadn’t noticed before that their fingers were restless, nail polish rubbed and chipped from too much stimulation, but now that he has, he feels as if the change can’t be a good sign. He winces, bracing himself for rejection.

“Oh…” Akaashi says; not the reaction anyone would want to hear. They clear their throat. “I don’t see why not.”

“That’s-- wait, really?” Koutarou says, halfway through his prepared rejection speech before his brain catches up with their response. It’s not enthusiastic by any means, but it’s something. He had hardly expected them to swoon, no matter what Sarukui may have said. Akaashi holds out their hand; their fingers are long.

“Give me your phone,” they say. Koutarou obliges, fumbling in his coat pocket, and they type on the screen diligently. When they hand it back, Koutarou sees that their nickname is simple - just  _ Akaashi Keiji _ , written in kanji, and that their icon is a Sanrio character, the rabbit that wears a head bow.

“My Melody…?” Koutarou recalls her name out loud, and Akaashi shrugs.

“She’s cute. I like her ears.”

Koutarou grins. Even if he doesn’t end up getting Akaashi to donate to the stables, at least he’s learned something fun about a customer. He might have made a friend, too, if he plays his cards right, although he still feels as if Akaashi might not have been completely willing to give out their number. He wonders if Sarukui paid them off some time when he wasn’t here.

“Thanks! I’ve got to go now - I’ve been here for so long I think I’ve got the jitters just from the smell of coffee - but I’ll message you later, I promise!”

“I look forward to it,” Akaashi says, not sounding as if they’re looking forward to it at all, but Koutarou chooses to take them at face value, bouncing out of the shop with a quick wave. It’s only when he gets outside that he realises the tightness in his chest has lifted, and that the jitters might not have been from caffeine after all.

*

Drained from his shift, Koutarou leaves the coffee shop without looking back, and he doesn’t notice the way that Akaashi slumps in their seat, uncaring of the way it rumples their suit, and buries their face in their book when Sarukui walks by, attempting to hide their expression.

“Oh, the new upside-down reading technique,” Sarukui comments, collecting their plate, and Akaashi drops their book to glare at his smiling face. “Impressive.”

“I’m never coming here again,” they tell him, and Sarukui shrugs.

“I suppose you don’t need to anymore.” 

*

Koutarou downloads a pack of My Melody stickers on the subway home. He spends a while searching through them, trying to find the coolest, and then gives up, figuring that it will be obvious he didn’t download them for himself anyway. He settles instead for the most recent, and sends one saying ‘hello’ to Akaashi, along with a quick introduction:  _ this is Bokuto Koutarou from the coffee shop!!!  _

The message stays unread for several hours, and Koutarou keeps himself busy as his excitement begins to fade to disappointment. He goes through his schoolwork, boils some noodles and forces himself to bed early with his textbook. Even with a reading ruler, his eyes skip over the page, gaze flicking back to his phone; Akaashi has seen the message, now, but hasn’t replied, and Koutarou should have known they probably just gave him their ID to shut him up. It seems strange that they didn’t offer him a fake one instead, but he’ll probably be blocked by morning anyway.

He is falling asleep with his textbook over his face when his phone vibrates, loud against the surface of his bedside table and shocking him into alertness. He jolts upright, expecting a teasing message from Saru or his mother checking up on him, but it’s Akaashi, and they’ve sent a sticker in return. Koutarou clicks on it to see My Melody waving brightly.

_ Hello. Sorry for the delay - work was very busy _ .

They send another sticker - this one of a crudely drawn human looking exhausted. Koutarou laughs, imagining Akaashi making the same face.

They talk for a while, all thoughts of an early night abandoned, the work he needs to do at the stables in the morning forgotten. He learns that Akaashi punctuates texts properly but loves to send stickers, making them a surprisingly dynamic conversationalist. He learns that their hours are flexible but they work a lot - meaning they must be quite high up in the company - and that they don’t like to talk about their job, certain that Koutarou wouldn’t understand what it meant even if they told him. They’re probably right, but Koutarou protests anyway, until Akaashi explains that it’s not because the job is difficult, but that the description is dry and deliberately obtuse. Koutarou doesn’t admit that he had to look up the kanji for obtuse, and compliments Akaashi on their modesty.

_ Thank you _ . My Melody blushes on the screen.  _ Did you really just want to get to know me? _

_ Ye!!!!! Ur cute and I’ve seen u in the shop a lot, so _

My Melody blushes again. Koutarou thinks back to Akaashi’s disinterested stare and tries to imagine their cheeks turning the rabbit’s shade of pink. It’s impossible.

_ Oh. Okay. _

_ Okay??????? _

_ Would you like to go for dinner sometime? _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Koutarou and Akaashi go on a date, and Akaashi is no easier to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for continuing this journey with me! and extra thanks to robin for the beta

Akaashi tells Koutarou that the venue is casual, but Koutarou has never seen them out of a suit - and a nice one, at that - so he goes for dress jeans and a button down. He’s relieved when he sees Akaashi outside the subway still wearing their work clothes; no matter how casual the dinner might be, he would have felt out of place standing next to them in his hoodie.

“You look nice,” Koutarou says when he approaches, and Akaashi looks down at themself as if they’re surprised they have a physical form for him to notice.

“This is what I always wear,” they point out. Koutarou flushes, shoving his hands into his pockets - is he really so rusty that he’s forgotten how to flirt?

“Well, yeah, then you always look nice. I like your - uh, thingy,” he says, gesturing to the ribbon they have used in lieu of a tie. It’s a deep green that matches their eyes and tied in a neat bow, exactly the kind of detail that had made Akaashi stand out at the shop in the first place. Koutarou knows that specifics are good, and wishes that he had remembered the word  _ ribbon _ just a second earlier, because Akaashi just seems perplexed by the comment, fingering one of the loops of the bow and biting their lip.

“Thank you,” they say after a moment, and Koutarou tries very hard not to kick himself in any universe other than his mind. “Shall we go? It isn’t far.”

They walk in silence to the end of the road, and by the time the signal allows them to cross Koutarou is ready to burst. Akaashi has nothing to say to him, but Koutarou doesn’t want this date to end before it can even begin - or before he can mention the stable. He fills the silence with chatter, stopping only when he notices that he has outpaced Akaashi and they are supposed to be leading the way.

“Do you work here? I don’t spend much time in this area. It’s pretty far from the coffee shop, though… and you went back after, right? Then again, you’re only in once a fortnight. Is it a treat?”

“Something like that,” Akaashi says, and Koutarou can’t tell if they’re smiling or grimacing or laughing at him. He wonders if, because Akaashi invited him to dinner, he should have bought flowers or something. He hopes they aren’t disappointed.

“That makes sense. You have to make time for the good things, and you’re always so busy, aren’t you? You don’t get home until I’m almost going to bed.”

“We’ve only been talking for a few days. Perhaps it’s just a busy period.”

“Right,”  _ fuck. _ “Well, is it?”

“No.”

Akaashi is definitely laughing at him now. Koutarou’s cheeks burn and he laughs nervously with them, even though he’s the only one making noise.

“You’re an early sleeper,” Akaashi notes, saving Koutarou from his self-made pit of despair. “I would have thought you’d be a night owl.”

Here’s his chance: “Well - I get up early most mornings because I have work and school.”

“You study?”

“Yeah! Sports therapy. The coffee shop is just a side gig, too - my main job is at a stable. So I’m up at 4 some days to make sure everything gets done before I have class.”

“That sounds difficult,” Akaashi observes. Koutarou can’t tell if they’re impressed or not, but he preens anyway, relishing the chance to talk about his passions.

“It is difficult, but it’s fun, and I’m good at it, so…!” he starts, chest puffing out. “Honestly I’ve always been kind of like that - I get carried away with things because they’re fun, and if you put the work in they can be even more fun, so… I have my own program at the stable! Well, they’re trialling it.”

“Impressive. What kind of program does a stable run?”

Koutarou doesn’t wait to analyse whether Akaashi might be teasing him, or being sarcastic - they always sound a little sarcastic without the cute bunny stickers to illustrate their sentences - before launching into a description of his final project. He skirts around his own experience of recovering from a sports injury, instead focusing on those of his case studies and clients with disabilities, explaining to Akaashi that most of them can never imagine doing something as challenging as horse riding, but all it takes is the right accommodations and a little commitment from the patients and therapists involved. Horses are incredible, Koutarou tells them: they have so much power and so much love, and all they really want is to have fun with you, and through riding his clients are able to establish an emotional connection - both to sports, which most of his case studies had thought they’d lost for good, and to the animal, and when is that ever a bad thing?

“It does sound fun,” Akaashi admits. Koutarou is struck with the image of Akaashi on a horse, pressing it into a canter and laughing - open mouthed, none of the reluctant half smiles that Koutarou has drawn out of them over the coffee bar - with their cheeks flushed from the exhilaration and rush of air. He bites the inside of his cheek as the urge to see it rises, bubbling over in his chest and making his throat tight. 

“So you know what fun is, then?” Koutarou says instead of dragging Akaashi back to the subway and the stable. It’s a cheeky comment, and he wouldn’t have risked it if the alternative hadn’t been much riskier, and they look at him sharply, frowning for just a moment before exhaling, closed-mouthed and lips pursed. Koutarou wishes they would let themself laugh - it would be much easier to know if they were laughing with or at him if the sound lasted for more than a split second.

“Distantly,” they tell him. Koutarou stares, and a second later he realises that this is one of their jokes. He is always slow to catch them. “My job is neither difficult nor fun, I’m afraid, so it doesn’t meet your requirements.”

“Then you should get a new one--” Koutarou stops dead in his tracks and claps a hand over his mouth as soon as he realises what he’s said. He turns to face Akaashi, who looks back at him with their unreadable gaze for an agonising amount of time, and then gestures behind him.

“We’re here,” they tell him. Grateful for the distraction, Koutarou spins on his heels, and his hand drops with his jaw when he sees the restaurant.

“ _ Akaashi _ , you said this was casual!”

“Casual doesn’t have to mean cheap.”

Of course not. For Koutarou, fancy often means cheap, too. It makes sense that it works the other way around. Clearing his throat, Koutarou lets Akaashi guide him into the restaurant by the elbow and give their name at the door. They’re led to a small, private booth, and Koutarou tries not to think too hard about how he was taken to these sorts of places by scouters when he was still up-and-coming in volleyball.

“Is it alright?” Akaashi asks when they’re seated. They’re watching him with their brow furrowed. “We can go somewhere else if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No, no, I’m fine!” Koutarou says. He doesn’t want them to judge him - or to go somewhere they don’t want - and he should take advantage of the free meal anyway. “I just feel flattered, that’s all. You going to this much trouble for me.”

“It’s no trouble,” Akaashi replies. There’s a tug in Koutarou’s chest when his heart sinks. He can’t help but be disappointed that they haven’t made as much of an effort as he thought. “Shall we order?”

Akaashi gets wine for them both - Koutarou has only ever had beer or sake before, but he doesn’t admit it - and they order a starter, which boosts his confidence. They can’t be too keen to be rid of him just yet. They make small talk over their meal, and Koutarou is surprised by how little of his judgement of Akaashi was accurate. Akaashi talks more than he expected, asking for details whenever Koutarou makes an offhand comment, grilling him about his interests and experiences. They have little to say about their job, but they’re interested in fashion, literature, and sports - their only common ground so far, although Koutarou studiously avoids volleyball. They’re assertive in their opinions as well as in their discussion of his, and Koutarou finds himself caught up in their attention, even though he can’t determine whether they are approving or judgmental. 

Koutarou’s friends have told him that he strongholds conversations, that he jumps from subject to subject so quickly that no one can keep up with him, let alone say what they wanted to say. He’s been described as a hurricane; a bull in an antique store; a puppy with too much energy. Akaashi doesn’t say any of these things about him, and this time Koutarou finds himself struggling to direct the conversation as they lead him deeper into his own stories. He flounders, ruminating on how to bring the topic back to the stable over their main meal when Akaashi saves him, pouring him another glass of wine.

“Did you choose to be so heroic, then, or is it natural?” they ask. Koutarou stares at them blankly. “The stable, physical therapy… have horses always been your passion, or was it just convenient for your thesis?”

Swallowing his indignance, Koutarou clears his throat, drinking to buy himself a little time. It’s true that he hadn’t grown up as a ‘horse person’ the way many at the stable have, and his past feels too much of a downer to bring up on the first date, but the idea that he’d choose to help people for university credit sits wrong with him. He opens his mouth to argue, but Akaashi must have sensed a shift in his posture, because they speak first.

“I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to imply you don’t  _ want _ to do it… It’s a lot of effort to do and an ambitious project, so I can tell it’s something you care about. I admired your enthusiasm earlier, and I wanted to see more of it, that’s all.”

Koutarou’s cheeks remain flushed, but now he is flustered instead of angry. He feels his mouth stretch into a grin, and Akaashi smiles gently back. They seem genuinely interested, and their focus is warming, a candle lit against his own spark, and it’s easy to respond to them, barely thinking that this had been his plan all along.

“Yeah, it  _ is  _ a lot of effort…” he admits slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “I really do love it though, and we’re seeing results! The participants are genuinely making a lot of progress, and it’s awesome to see, not just because of the data collection - I actually hate that part. If we manage to finish the course I really think that it could go somewhere.”

“If? Why wouldn’t you complete it? You don’t seem the type to quit.”

They speak with an authority Koutarou doesn’t understand, and there’s an edge to their voice that makes Koutarou think they’re talking about something else. Koutarou ignores the tug of insecurity at the back of his mind with a practiced stubbornness, finishing his plate as he explains.

“One second - ah, well, it’s the funding, you know? People think stables are super rich places but this one’s kind of falling apart, and it’s only an undergraduate project, so no one’s paying to participate. I don’t think people should have to pay, of course, being poor doesn’t stop you from needing recovery therapy, but it’s, uh…” He waves a chopstick. “Complicated. Horses and disability accommodations and training all costs time and money, and we’re about to run out. We’re looking for investors, though.”

He finishes with a hopeful smile, not wanting to dampen the warmth of Keiji’s interest, and is surprised to find that their lips have pursed, gaze hardening down at their plate. The conversation of the next tables drifts over Koutarou’s head, indecipherable as the silence between them lingers, and Akaashi takes a drink before looking back at him. They’re smiling again, but it’s not the same as before. It doesn’t reach their eyes, and Koutarou feels abruptly cold, as if all the heat has been drained from the room.

“I’d be happy to make a donation in your name,” they say, voice flat and polite, with none of the sharp edges that he has enjoyed so much tonight or over the counter. “It’s a good cause, and I’d hate for you to be stuck at the coffee shop forever.”

“I probably will be anyway - Saru’s an old friend, I’m always gonna help out,” Koutarou says weakly, trying to fight the rising feeling of panic in his chest. It takes a moment for him to catch the meaning of their tone, but he realises much more quickly that he  _ hates _ it, and he kicks himself even as he reaches across the table to grab their hand.

Akaashi’s hands are slim but their fingers are long, calloused around the knuckles, and he can feel muscle beneath his palm. Dimly, Koutarou recalls a long-dulled instinct.  _ Setter hands _ .

“I didn’t ask you out for your money, Akaashi. I don’t want it.” Akaashi raises an eyebrow at him, and he releases their hand to hold both of his in the air. “Okay, okay, I  _ do _ want it, it would probably be really helpful and you’re obviously loaded because you always look perfect and this - this is casual, apparently. But I’ve had a really good time tonight, and if I take your money now you’re gonna think that’s what this whole thing was for, and you’re not gonna message me again, and we’ll just have really awkward exchanges at the coffee shop when I give you your order and neither of us wants to bring it up. Or maybe you’ll make snide remarks about it and Saru will threaten to beat you up while I pretend I didn’t get my heart broken.”

A waiter collects their plates, and Akaashi stares at Koutarou the entire time, leaving Koutarou to smile and make small talk and ask for the bill. Really, he wants dessert, but he’s pretty sure he’s blown his chances now, and it would really be taking advantage to ask them to buy it for him after this. “Your heart got broken, hm?” They ask when the waiter has left, and Koutarou clutches his chest in mock agony.

“I’m kidding… Mostly. It would suck, though, because - uh, well, I think this could go somewhere. Have you had a good time?”

He realises as he asks that he has no idea. Akaashi is very good at getting him to talk, and seemed interested in what he was saying, but he hasn’t been able to get a read on whether they’re  _ into _ him at all. Maybe they just like him as a friend and the chemistry has been one-sided; maybe he’s been self-absorbed the whole night…

“I have,” Akaashi replies, and Koutarou breathes a sigh of relief. “I still feel obliged to offer a donation, though - if you’d given me that pitch over the phone, I still would have agreed. I think refusing to provide you something that you need, that I can give without much personal trouble, wouldn’t be the best way to begin a relationship, and I’d be upset if the stable does close further down the line and I could have done something about it.”

The word  _ relationship _ makes Koutarou break out in goosebumps, and he has to shake himself to process what they’re saying. He feels giddy and childish, the same way that he had felt on the court, or when he’d first gotten on a horse after his injury. He has to stop himself from jumping out of his chair and pacing the restaurant. 

“Hah! That’s - that’s a good point,” he says, and Akaashi looks amused, and it’s probably because he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “Not on the first date though. How about… How about you come to the stable and see it for yourself? Then you can invest in the place and not just, well, me.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“That’s okay! I can show you.” Koutarou is leaning forward in his seat now, excited in spite of himself. He wants to sweep them off their feet and take them there straight away. Akaashi makes a show of mulling over his offer, and Koutarou’s knee bounces under the table, his fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

“Alright,” Akaashi agrees, and Koutarou whoops loudly, drawing the attention of nearby diners. He bows his head apologetically to them. Akaashi continues, “I should warn you, though - I only wear skirts outside of work, so you’re looking at the only style of trousers I own.”

“I want to see,” Koutarou blurts, clapping a hand over his mouth for the second time that evening as Akaashi laughs at him. He doesn’t mind the embarrassment too much, and it’s worth it to see them smile. “No, but really that’s cool - I’ll make sure to bring something for you. We can figure it out on LINE, maybe next weekend?”

“I’d like that,” Akaashi tells him, and Koutarou floats out of the restaurant after Akaashi pays the bill. Akaashi doesn’t say anything as they leave, so Koutarou fills the walk back to the station with plans for their first riding session. They don’t ask as many questions now, and when Koutarou looks at them their cheeks are pink, bottom lip pinched between their teeth, and he wonders if they’re nervous.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t put you on any of the difficult horses! It’ll be a real treat, and I’ll help you the whole time, I promise.”

Akaashi looks at him, eyes wide in surprise, and then laughs. “Thank you. I'm sure I'll be quite safe in your hands.”

Koutarou doesn't have time to ask if they're teasing him before his train comes. The doors close on their smiling face, and he watches them fade from view with all the optimism of a teen in love. 

*

“So, how was it?”

Koutarou wouldn’t normally be at the coffee shop on a weekend, but Sarukui had begged him to come that morning. He was confused when he’d arrived to see them managing perfectly well, but when Sarukui pulls him aside, all smiles and sparkling curiosity, he understands. His arms cross over his chest, looking at Sarukui in dismay. “You made me work after a full day of riding because you wanted to know how my date went? Phones exist, you know - you used one to bring me here.”

“Yeah, but your face is easier to read than your words,” Sarukui replies. “Besides,  _ I’m _ working, and I didn’t want to wait. Did you get the money?”

Koutarou flinches at the reminder of his initial intent, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“What? I felt for sure they would offer…”

“They did, but I said no.”

“You said no?”

It’s a question, but Sarukui isn’t really asking, Koutarou thinks. His mouth is curled in amusement, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. Koutarou wonders if maybe he was being conned just as much as Akaashi, in the beginning.

“I didn’t want them to think I was playing them! So I invited them to the stable. We’re going next weekend.”

“Not today, huh?” Saru asks, sensing Koutarou’s excitement, and he throws a dishcloth in his face.

“I know how to play it cool,” he sulks, even though he’s pretty sure he’s done anything but. He sent Akaashi pictures of all the horses that morning, avoiding his clients for confidentiality, and typed up their personal profiles. They hadn’t replied until much later in the afternoon, and then only with a clapping sticker and a quick remark of ‘cute’, but Koutarou had been too excited to care. Now he is nervous.

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Saru says. He almost sings the words, coyly ducking behind the counter before Koutarou can throw something else at him.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing! Really.” Saru holds his hands up in defence. “Just that they only started coming in so frequently after you started helping out here.”

“What?” Koutarou narrows his eyes. “That’s impossible. Akaashi finds me, like, entertaining at best. I sort of felt like they were gonna write a blog post about me later.”

Saru laughs. “A blog post? Why?”

“They asked so many questions, and when I answered them it was like they were… taking notes. Not literally, but I could basically see this typewriter in their head like. Checking off all of my weird traits.”

Koutarou bites his lip, too absorbed in his own analysis to notice Sarukui coming back around the counter. He lays one hand on Koutarou’s shoulder, heavy and squeezing, making him jump.

“Bokkun,” he begins with gravitas, staring dead into his eyes. “That’s called interest. It happens with people who want to date you.”

“I know what interest is!” 

Someone knocks over a cup and Koutarou leaps to assist them, blustering away from Sarukui as he laughs. He is still waiting when Koutarou returns, pinching Koutarou’s red-faced cheeks in an expression of affection Koutarou would only tolerate from him.

“Look, it really didn’t feel like interest, okay? I know it’s been a while, but I’m sure I’d recognise that. I used to be pretty popular.”

“I know,” Sarukui replies with more conviction than there had been in Koutarou’s assertion, and he bends in sympathy when Koutarou’s shoulders sag. “I’ve gotten pretty good at watching people since I opened this place though, and everyone’s different, you know? Besides, you’ve changed. You won’t see the things you used to, and people won’t be interested in the same parts of you.”

“Tell me about it,” Koutarou says glumly. He knows that he isn’t as athletic as he used to be, and his life is more about hard work than flashy sports events, even if he’s come to realise it’s just as rewarding. He has no idea how to sell himself anymore, and why would someone like Akaashi be interested in the recovering, unglamorous version of him?

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Sarukui shakes his head. “How’s this for a show of confidence? I’ll bet you all my tips from this shift that they’ll kiss you on your next date.”

“What?” Koutarou squawks, ducking behind the counter when he draws the attention of the nearest table. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, you think it’ll happen too, then? Or are you just too scared to take the bet?”

Koutarou squares his shoulders, jabbing Sarukui in the chest.

“I know you’re tricking me, but you’re on anyway. You’ll see, they just think I’m kind of weird. They’re not interested enough to kiss me yet. And then I’ll turn all your tips into treats for the horses.”

“They’ll starve when I win,” Sarukui sighs mournfully, artfully dodging the next cloth that comes flying towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/raindryad)!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi visits the stable; Koutarou wrestles with his self-confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking as long as i did with the update here...i have a lot of wips behind the scenes. thanks to robin for the beta!

Saturday morning finds Koutarou knee deep in hay, wondering if he searches for long enough whether he’ll be able to find the game he lost somewhere around five years ago. He sighs, chest rising and falling as he breathes in the familiar smell. It comforts him; it makes him feel like he is a child again, even though he didn’t set foot in a stable until he was 22 years old.

“Hey, we have bales so this exact thing doesn’t happen, you know,” Yukie speaks from behind him, making him jump and throw the roll he had been unravelling into the air. “Something bothering you? Your date isn’t for another hour, and you’re not supposed to be working today.”

Koutarou wrinkles his nose at her and she continues to look concerned for another few seconds before the mask breaks and she grins, all teeth and razz. The people at this stable know him - the  _ new _ him - better than anyone, and they’ve never seen him on any kind of date. Yukie in particular has been teasing him mercilessly, and right now he’s giving her all the material she needs just by existing in this state.

“I wanted to talk to someone who understands to warm up…” Koutarou begins, and Yukie clutches her chest, simpering. He scowls. “Not you and you know it. Cookie.”

“That’s fair. Everyone needs a pep talk from their horse mum before a date,” Yukie says, voice laden with false understanding, and Koutarou throws a fistful of hay at her. “You’d better use that now you’ve dragged it out.” 

“I will, I will, don’t worry.”

Koutarou throws the remaining hay into a wheelbarrow, careful to lift from his knees and then pushing it around the circumference of the building, stopping with each horse to check on them and say hello. It’s a routine he’s familiar with, and his soothing murmurs are more for his sake than for theirs. He presses his face into their necks when they ignore him in favour of the delivered food, breathing in the sour smell of hay and manure to ground himself.

“Oh, shit.” Koutarou pulls away, processing the scent as smelled by someone who didn’t cuddle horses as a coping mechanism. ”I’m gonna stink.”

“Hell yes, you are”” Yukie sails past, slapping first Koutarou’s rump and the Taro’s. “You already do, actually.”

Koutarou whines, grabbing at her elbow. “Why didn’t you tell me this was a bad idea! It’s only our second date - if it even counts as a date.”

“You think I remember this place smells? I live here. If they can’t stand a bit of wet hay then you’re not meant to be, Bokkun. Besides, this way you’re pretty much guaranteed to win your bet with Yamato, right?”

Yukie snickers, wriggling free and heading towards the tack rooms and Koutarou kicks the straw dust at his feet, yelling after her. “There’s a hefty donation for your stable riding on this too, you know? Sabotaging me is self destruction!”

“One wonders why you’re helping someone who’d want to ruin your chances.”

Akaashi’s voice sends a shiver down Koutarou’s spine and he jolts, hitting his head against Taro’s neck in the process. Taro huffs, disgruntled, and Koutarou mutters a hasty apology before turning, red-faced with shame, to face them. 

The last thing he wants to do is remind Akaashi of his initial motivation for approaching them, but here he is, and the date hasn’t even begun. They seem unperturbed, though, put together and so out of place in the organised chaos around them. Exiting the stall, he sees that they’re wearing a loose fitting skirt that falls to their ankles - easy to change out of - and a t-shirt with some English slogan that Koutarou can’t understand. It has a crudely drawn picture of a horse on it though, and it makes Koutarou beam for a split second… until he remembers the conversation he has to charm his way out of.

“Shit, I…” He tails off. There’s no saving himself, and he slumps, scratching the back of his head. “She’s been on my case about you coming all week.”

“She doesn’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that - she just likes to tease me. I’m so sorry.”

Akaashi shrugs, averting their gaze, and Koutarou finds himself wishing for more of a reaction. It’s not that he wants to have upset them, but he wonders why they’re here at all if thinking that he has ulterior motives doesn’t hurt their feelings. Maybe they’re just looking for charity work after all.

“You look great!” Koutarou tries all the same. If it’s a business opportunity he might as well make the most of it, and he’s always been stubborn; maybe he can turn it into something else later. “It’s kind of a shame you have to change, but the skirt won’t be any good for spreading your legs.”

“Right,” Akaashi coughs, and Koutarou takes a moment to relish the pink dusting their cheeks - but then his words catch up with him and heat prickles his own neck. He turns mechanically, moving towards the tack room and holding the door open for them.

“I borrowed some jodhpurs from my sister. They might be a little short, but they should work fine, and we have boots and hats to rent by size next to the tacks. You can change in here, I’ll watch the door.”

“I’m sure you will,” Akaashi quips, and Koutarou stares at the ground, humiliated. Even while stuck in his own shame, his eyes are drawn to the glimpse of their ankle above their sneakers, and he’s silently grateful that his sister is so short. It’s practically Victorian how much of a thrill the exposed skin gives him, but that, at least, he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of. Akaashi’s calves are something godly, sculpted in a way that makes Koutarou want to ask them for exercise tips.

When the door creaks closed behind Akaashi, Koutarou leans against the wall and sighs, pinching his fingers together and counting his breaths. He can’t remember the last time he felt so clumsy. Koutarou has never been eloquent, but it’s never bothered him, and he’s always managed to make himself heard, getting by for the most part on charisma and conviction.

He’s lying to himself, though; he  _ can _ remember the last time he felt like this, and it was after his injury. He had had nothing to say, so words hadn’t failed him then, but his body had, muscles that he had grown accustomed to relying on suddenly fragile and easily snapped. Learning to move in a way that didn’t hurt him had been awkward and frustrating, and he’d stumbled making even the simplest of movements, leaving him humiliated and ashamed. Now that shame sits on his tongue, lingering and pricking at him in the same way that his shoulder still does sometimes, reminding him of what he used to be.

Well, Koutarou learned to use his body again after months of neglect. He can surely learn how to talk, even if it has been years.

The door creaks when Akaashi pulls it open, twisting the riding pants Koutarou provided them with as they step out. The pants are a little large on the waist, and they sit tantalising on their hips. Koutarou can tell from the wear of the pants that his sister’s knees are a little higher than theirs, but they’re protected by the boots they’ve borrowed, the excess fabric from the jodphurs tucked hastily in. It’s a little cute, to be honest, although Koutarou can’t help but imagine how they might look in pants that fit.

“How is it..?” they ask, looking down at themself. “I wasn’t sure if there was any special way…”

“You look great!” Koutarou hurries to say. “Gorgeous, in fact.”

Akaashi snorts, and well, perhaps gorgeous might seem like an exaggeration, but Koutarou means it. They nod at him. “I don’t think I pull it off as well as you. I had high hopes that I’d be able to accomplish the debonair equestrian look, but some dreams are meant to stay dreams, I suppose. At least my company is dashing.”

Koutarou blinks, looking down at himself, startled. It’s true that he started the day intending to impress: he’d picked breeches that clung to his thighs and backside, polished his boots and even gotten out the riding coat he saved for shows (much to Yukie’s delight). But the shoes were scuffed now, the edges of his chaps coated in dirt, and even his coat had gathered grime around the cuffs somehow. There was no trace of embarrassment or coquettishness in their voice; they had to be mocking him.

“He looks good, right? I saw you checking out his ass before,” Yukie chimes in from the nearest stall, and Koutarou jumps, spinning on his heels when he realises that she had hidden there to spy on him. He’s so busy glaring that he misses Akaashi’s expression, only catching Yukie’s open-mouthed grin at them, delighted and mocking, and by the time he turns around again Akaashi looks as composed as ever, idly inspecting one of the nearby beams.

“I have to admit I didn’t expect you to look so professional,” Akaashi tells him, and Koutarou bites his lip, dismayed. Did he come across as unprofessional before? As if he’s been read, Akaashi’s hand lands on his elbow, giving it a squeeze. “It suits you.”

Koutarou’s hopes shoot up into the air again; he curses this fragile state that blows and bustles him like a leaf on the wind of Akaashi’s reactions. Attempting to hide his embarrassment, he presses forward with a tour of the stable, focusing on the assets he wants to promote and stopping by his favourite horses.

“This is Mokuroh,” Koutarou says, holding the door of a stall open for the two of them. Inside a young colt stands, and he recognises Koutarou instantly, pressing his nose into the lining of his jacket as he searches for treats. Koutarou laughs as he holds him back, an old and routine contest of strength by now. Soon he won’t be able to win, and he strokes Mokuroh’s dappled muzzle with a touch of pride. “He’s my project, the first horse here to be trained from the start from therapeutic riding. Halflingers are perfect for it - that’s the kind of horse he is.”

“Right,” Akaashi’s voice comes from further away than Koutarou would have expected, and he turns to see them pressed into the corner of the stall, eyeing Mokuroh warily. “You named him after the Pokemon? He must be young.”

“Yeah, he looks like one, though, right? When he’s older I’m going to make him a breastplate with a little leaf bow… It’ll be so cute, it’s bound to make people smile. You don’t need to be scared, you know.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Come pet him, then! He loves attention.”

Koutarou takes a special kind of glee in calling Akaashi on their bluff; they have never looked anything but slightly bored inside the cafe, and even though it might not have been on purpose, taking them so far out of their element has opened a world of expressions to him. He watches the furrow of their brow and tense set of their jaw with delight, offering his hand to them in reassurance. When they take it, he feels that their palm is soft, and their fingers are so long that their whole hand is bigger than his, and he regrets not remembering he has all the composure of a schoolboy confessing his love on the playground.

“Here,” Koutarou says, keen to distract from his own flustered delight, and he guides Akaashi’s hand to Mokuroh’s cheek, the spot he most appreciates being pet. Akaashi stiffens, but Mokuroh is as obtuse as his trainer and presses forward into Akaashi’s hand, stepping on Koutarou’s booted toes and pushing his nose into Akaashi’s armpit. They let out a muted sort of scream, and Mokuroh nickers in return, delighted at the game he just invented. Koutarou cringes, pulling his boot free to intervene, but by the time he has clumsily righted himself Akaashi is looking at Mokuroh more fondly, realising that he won’t push further than he needs to to get attention. Akaashi stares at Mokuroh’s expression, and Koutarou knows they must be counting the lashes on the horse’s face the way that he had when they first met, but all he can focus on is Akaashi’s.

“He’s… cute,” they say eventually, and Koutarou claps his hands in unrestrained delight. They’ve passed the first hurdle, and Mokuroh’s charm might have made up for Koutarou’s lack of it. Besides, he’s not sure that he could consider dating anyone who didn’t like horses - if it’s still even up to him at this point.

“You’re ready to ride, then!” he tells them, and laughs when Akaashi looks at him, their expression dropped in horror. He’ll have to memorise that one; he doubts they’ll let him see it again any time soon.

Where Akaashi is grace in the cafe, even biting their thumb in concentration with the air of someone perfectly balanced, they are artless on a horse. Their posture is appalling, tense and hunched in all the wrong places, making Koutarou cringe when he sees them tossed about in the saddle. He almost says they can stop, but when he goes to check their grip on the reigns he sees that Akaashi’s jaw has set and their eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the outdoor air and determination. It’s beautiful even in their inelegance, and Koutarou finds his breath caught by them once again. How had it taken him so long to notice them at Sarukui’s?

He leads them in circles around the yard until they seem comfortable in walk and trot and the steep frown of concentration has loosened into a breathless half-smile, and then he asks them if they’d like to go out together.

“You know, on a little trek,” he says. “I thought it would be…”

“A good opportunity?” Akaashi supplies as Koutarou chokes on the word  _ romantic _ . He coughs, scratching his cheek.

“Yeah.”  _ Nice going, Koutarou. _

“I’d like that,” Akaashi’s reply is both a relief and a disappointment, and he bounds off to prepare his own horse, forgetting in a rush of embarrassment that they can’t go anywhere without him. “Bokuto-san!”

The trek begins achingly awkward: Koutarou fumbles with equipment he’s been handling daily for years and Akaashi sits helplessly on top of Tofu, who takes it upon herself to try dragging her rider towards other horses’ feeding troughs, ignoring both their and Koutarou’s shouts of protest. When Koutarou brings George, a large stallion and his favourite to ride, out into the yard to tether Tofu to, Akaashi eyes him with blatant disdain.

“What?”

“He’s so much bigger than mine…” Akaashi responds, and Tofu snorts as if she hears them. “Did you give me the child’s horse?”

Koutarou can’t help but laugh at that. He throws his head back, gut tightening as he climbs onto George, and maneuvers him closer to give Akaashi a consolitary pat on the thigh.

“No, but she’s a good pony for beginners. She knows the routine - a little too well, maybe. That’s why she takes advantage of you. I just picked this big guy because I want to impress you, ‘cause I look really good on him.”

“I see,” Akaashi says. Koutarou waits for a moment to see if they’ll confirm his brag, but they say nothing, merely watching the way his thighs and ankles guide George subtly into a leading position. It stings to be stared at so intently and know that it’s purely platonic, but he does his best to show off anyway - he knows that his thighs look good against George’s lean muscle, and his breeches highlight every aspect. His body might not be what it used to be, but it can still make up for his mouth’s mistakes - sometimes, anyway.

A few minutes’ riding is all that Koutarou needs to calm down. The path is at the lee of the mountain, and the only wind generated is by their speed, which picks up into a gentle trot once Tofu has gotten used to being led. He knows this path; knows every loose stone and weed that might attract the horse’s attention, and it’s comforting to be able to navigate something with so much ease while Akaashi remains a mystery behind him. He points out the fields that belong to the stable (an unfortunately low number) and talks through his beginners’ riding tips by rote, laughing as Akaashi struggles to hold the reigns and talk at the same time.

“Just concentrate on your rhythm,” Bokuto says eventually. Silence unnerves him most of the time. It reminds him of hospitals and nights in his room without sleep, lost and with nothing to measure his worth. Here, though, he is content to finish the trek without conversation. The environment speaks for itself, and he is busy in his own dialogue with his horse, proving himself just with his movements and maintained intimacy.

When they return and Koutarou slides off George, lifting his leg over his back, he turns to see Akaashi watching him with an intense gaze, eyes dark below the cap of their helmet. It’s the same way he’s seen them staring at their laptop screen in the coffee shop, usually turning a pen in their hand with such frustration that he fears they might break it; they’re looking at him like he’s a sum to be solved. He suppresses a shiver and walks over to them, offering his hands to support their dismount.

“I’m fine,” Akaashi tells him, and then struggles to pull their feet out of the stirrups. They don’t say anything, but their shoulders slump, and Tofu nickers again as Koutarou steps forward to guide their boots and catch them out of the saddle.

Akaashi makes no attempt to support themself after accepting his help, allowing their full weight to fall into him, and Koutarou’s arms tighten around them instinctively to prevent them both from falling. Their noses clash together and Akaashi’s face is close - terrifyingly close - for a split second before they pull away again, Koutarou’s arm still around their waist. There’s a sharp twinge in his shoulder, but he’s too embarrassed to really feel it when Yukie whistles from the courtyard and Akaashi’s hand lands over his, the one that’s covering their hip.

“You could have done some of it!” he squawks, indignant to cover up his humiliation. Yet again, he feels trapped in some renaissance novel, the fittingness of his attire not lost on him. Akaashi purses their lips and opens their mouth to retort - probably something sharp and unsympathetic - but then they pull back abruptly, coloured with concern.

“Oh - I should have thought, your shoulder… I’m sorry. Is it alright?”

Koutarou’s hand moves slowly to his shoulder. The strain was only a little, and he takes care of himself now, so the actual pain has faded to the dull, phantom ache of his once-snapped ligament. He squeezes it once and rolls the joint, testing it, staring at Akaashi all the while.

“I never told you about my shoulder,” he says, dazed, and then tries to laugh. “Did you study medicine or somethin’ once, Akaashi?”

Akaashi’s expression transforms yet again, and Koutarou would count himself lucky that he was able to incite so many emotions in one day if the face looking back at him wasn’t full of guilt. They’re flushed from more than the thrill of exercise, and he finds their gaze difficult to meet, staring instead at their fingers, which tangle with one another, rubbing each knuckle red and raw.

“Ah… I have a confession to make,” they say. Koutarou’s stomach drops. “I recognised you at the cafe. I used to be something of a fan. I thought - well, the first part doesn’t matter, but when you asked me to donate, I thought that I wanted to support you now, too.”

“Oh,” Koutarou says. It sounds hollow, which isn’t the right reaction; their sentiment is good, and he should be thankful. “That’s kind of you. Thanks.”

Akaashi is hesitant in their reply. Their grip on their knuckle is so tight that Koutarou fears they might dislocate their middle finger. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

_ Get it together, Koutarou. _ He laughs. “What? No, I totally get it, when would you have? It’s awkward, right, and not like I’m famous or anything. It’s cool to meet a fan, though.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Forget it,” he waves a hand, dismissive. His wrist stings. “It’s worked out well for me, right? If you were willing to come see the stable because of that.”

“...Right. I’m very happy to contribute, by the way. I think it’s a worthy cause. I might be able to get my company involved if you give me some time.”

“You don’t have to do that much…!” Koutarou hears the high pitch of his voice as if it is someone else’s, further away than inside his own throat. “It’s not like I’m gonna teach the horses to play volleyball or anything. I do appreciate your support though, really, that’s cool, but you don’t need to go out of your way anymore.”

“Bokuto-san.”

Koutarou isn’t sure when he had begun to walk away, hand flat and shaking against George’s flank, but he turns and Akaashi takes a few steps towards him. They look angry; Koutarou can’t remember what he said well enough to figure out if he might have offended them.

“I would like to see you again, and I’d like to support this thoroughly if I can. Not because of your history, which I admit contributed to you attracting my attention, but because of what you’re doing now. I think it’s a worthy cause,” they repeat themself, and this time Koutarou really hears it, enough to swallow the lump in his throat. “I think you are a person worth investing in.”

It’s just a business proposition, Koutarou reminds himself, but the pain of his heart trying to catch up after a skipped beat is palpable, and his gut twists in the most delightful way as he nods his head. He believes them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/raindryad).

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to robin for the beta; i continue to love you
> 
> follow me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/raindryad), [pillowfort](http://pillowfort.io/decidueye) or [dreamwidth](http://fukurodani.dreamwidth.com). I'm not using tumblr anymore.


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